


The One With The Mug

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 20:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: In which: an angel perhaps projects.But in addition: a demon is on hand to help.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 163





	The One With The Mug

He is being ridiculous. In the grand scheme of things, this? This is hardly even a bullet point. (Poor choice of words.) Alright, it’s barely a footnote. Not a dog-eared corner. It’s… between the lines. Miniscule. Insignificant.

Nothing.

He can’t even recall where he got the blessed thing. Was it when he was wandering down the high street one day? Was it a gift? Did it just appear, fully formed, in his shop? (Things did that, sometimes, when he needed them to. He didn’t even consciously do it, they just… turned up.) 

His mug. His favourite mug. The one for the cocoa, with the porcelain, fluffy, white wings. 

He has various teacups and saucers for when he wants tea. He has mugs specifically for coffee - and Crowley - but this one… this one is his indulgence one. His ‘settle down for a good long while and drift away into thought’ one. Sweet, chocolatey warmth and occasionally so far as to add cream and marshmallows. Utterly self-indulgent and just plain lovely.

And now it is broken. The child had broken out of the perambulator, much to his shock, and he hadn’t moved fast enough to stop the ensuing mayhem. He’s lucky that no tomes were ruined by sticky, curious hands. Only his mug and today’s newspaper were casualties, and the very apologetic and harassed mother had offered to pay for both, before leaving with the child strapped back in the wheeled prison it clearly wasn’t born to stay in.

The worst part, he thinks, is that he can’t even truly be annoyed. Children are innocent. They don’t understand good and bad, right and wrong. Not properly. The small thing had only been following normal, instinctive curiosity. The kind of drive that would later serve them well in whatever endeavours they chose to pursue. The mother hadn’t been negligent, and had done the socially appropriate thing in offering to make amends. He’d tried to school the hurt from his face as he politely (but shortly) rebuffed her. 

He has no right to be angry. There was no harm intended. To be annoyed with an accident and no malice is… uncharitable. Not angelic. Not even nice for humans, and they… they have more leeway.

But he feels it, swirling in his stomach, like a stew that was too heavy on the thickening, and meat that had seen better days. He feels it, and it unsettles him. He can’t will it away, or think it away, and the knowledge that he’s… _petty_... doesn’t… fit. Doesn’t… feel good. 

One wing is snapped clean off, the other one missing a chunk. Totally missing. He’s slightly concerned the child has swallowed it, but the pair left long ago and he has no way to alert her to the potential for ingested mug pieces. (Another thing to feel guilty about.) He runs a finger along the jagged, harsh surface that was hidden so close to the surface gleam, and…

It’s… it’s… 

He is not projecting onto his mug. No. And he is not in denial about it, either. Just because it’s a clear visual reminder of his own wings, which he has to hide out of necessity. It’s a cute thing. It’s not a _metaphor_. It isn’t a substitute.

He isn’t in denial. Even if that’s what he would say if he was.

It’s just that… it’s broken, now. It’s broken, and he loved it, and he can’t even remember how it came into his blasted life! There’s no shop he can go to and find a replacement. And if he did, would it feel the same? Would the handle be the right shape for his fingers?

Would it mean as much if he knew a replacement would serve just as well?

He could fix it. Of course he could. He could wave a hand and it would be as if the past hour never happened, at least for the mug. But it would still have happened for _him_. He would always know things had been different. That his mug - hah - had _fallen_. That he had let it. That it was… patched up. That <s>he</s> it was no longer perfect. 

And that’s the crux of it. He’s seen inside, now. Seen the slight bubbles in the white porcelain, which isn’t all gleaming surface. He’s seen how close the edges are to blades, ready to slice a finger bloody and wide. He’s seen the Fall, and he knows that - for Heaven - some things are unforgivable. 

That things aren’t as glossy as they first appeared. That things he believed for _so long_ were only a few millimeters deep, and as fragile as an ego. 

Aziraphale doesn’t want to go ‘home’. Not to that sterile, unloving world. Not to that place where ‘obedience’ matters more than ‘love’. Love. Real love. 

Love he never once felt from any of them, though he tried so hard to believe. And does he even want a mug that reminds him of this? That he upheld the ‘Plan’ and the rules and the obedience and the sheer bloody-minded arrogance for so long? He was proud, once, to be an angel. 

Now… now he’s… he’s not so sure.

As if summoned, the door chimes. He knows - instinctively - that it’s Crowley. He just does. He looks up and before he can smile, he sees the frown obscured by glasses.

“Want me to mend that?” 

He offers. He doesn’t need to be asked, wheedled, cajoled. There isn’t the same requirement for plausible deniability, now. His demon saunters through the front door without looking over his shoulder, and holds a hand out for the offending crockery.

“I’m afraid I got a little… nostalgic, shall we say?” he replies, handing it over.

He’ll still know that it was fixed, but he can’t refuse. Not such an open act of kindness, of… love and compassion. Maybe it will be enough to let him forget the spiral of dark thoughts. Maybe…

Crowley runs a finger over the seam as he slots the two pieces perfectly back together. It’s a mug, not a soul. Not an angel’s… selfhood. Not humanity, the world, or any kind of plan. It’s a mug, for hot chocolate. 

When he turns it to check he’s done, he pauses at the chip. Rubs a thumb over it. Then plops it down on the desk, avoiding his eyes. 

“Fancy lunch? I found a new thing this lot are up to, and I want to explain it to you while you pretend to be interested.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I would love that.” It will take him away from this spiral into his own worries, and he loves to listen to the demon enthuse, even if he doesn’t always understand the intricacies of what he’s saying. He understands enough to get by.

“Right-o. Get your coat on. It’s nippy, out.”

The casual comment, showing just how much he cares… it catches in his throat, and he picks up the mug to put it back in the small kitchen area. “I’ll be right out.”

Crowley waits patiently for him as he fusses. The shelf has an empty spot for this particular vessel, and as he’s about to push it back in, he sees what Crowley did to the chip.

It’s… it’s… patched over. Not just the gap, which is smoothed out like nothing happened. There’s a small splash of faint colour, now. A square of ‘fabric’ made to look like a piece of patchwork repair. His tartan, held onto the ‘wing’ with what are meant to look like stitches. 

It’s so utterly, fabulously unnecessary. So totally thoughtful, and he grasps the sideboard at the wash of gratitude. 

No. He doesn’t want to go back to Heaven. Not like it is now, anyway. Perhaps he’s a little battered, a little… worn… but here? Here they believe in fixing things. In making them work, even with bits missing. 

Aziraphale doesn’t have bits ‘missing’. He has bits that are him, and him alone. And a demon who knows how to pick up what’s been thrown away, and stick it back together again. 

He places the mug proudly back into place, and nods up at it. Yes. 

Yes. 

Everything will be just fine. 

“Angel… did you get lost?”

“Only a little,” he calls back, pushing arms through his sleeves. “Now, you were going to tell me something?”

He was right. He doesn’t fully understand, but he can piece enough together to muddle through.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Porcelain Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508782) by [Idlewild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idlewild/pseuds/Idlewild)


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